Ahem...

[Darion McNair]

More people were starting to arrive now and were making for an interesting spectacle. The Bosconian native viewed each of their warmup could tell exactly who would be a threat and who would not. The length of warmup, if they bothered to stretch, and their overall style spoke volumes to the unnoticed observer.

His fingers caressed the hilt of his elegant rapier, the bronze plating on the masterfully crafted guard reflecting brightly in the sunlight. His father had given the sword a name upon gifting it to him: Halcyon. Darion thought it rather strange to name a weapon of war after a mythical, peaceful bird. His father explained, however, this weapon must be used to bring peace, not war. “A sword in the hand of a devil is a tool of destruction. But in the hands of an angel it brings peace and justice.” he told Darion.

Far be it for Darion to go against his father’s wishes, so the name was Halcyon. The blade was good for cutting as well as stabbing, as light as a feather but as strong as a broadsword blade. Perhaps the best and most versatile weapon his country had to offer. It was one of the few relics that reminded him of his homeland. . . and his father.

He wondered perhaps, if Ken-Dall understood why he asked her to stay the night with him. He hoped she did not get the wrong idea, for his aim was to be the perfect gentleman. But when she told him that there were those who wanted to kill her, that she was very scared, he felt the need to offer his protection. Though talking with her that night was very enjoyable.

But it seemed that in his good intentions, he unintentionally put her in danger. The attempt on his life, when he went to get the extra cot, marked the beginning of a time of danger for him that would painfully endure. The astronomical funds of the Dionese Magistrates would be put forward to ensure his death. He cared about Ken-Dall a great deal but didn’t want to see her in the middle of this. He doubted she would want to know him anymore after last night, the relationship too dangerous perhaps? She would arrive soon, and he wasn’t exactly sure how she would treat him.

He shoved all of it out of his mind and stood, drawing his weapon he began going through some bladework drills, keeping his point in control and his parries tight. Cutting moves were usually a last resort for him, too messy. His en guard was lower than usual. During his training his weapons master noticed a limit to Darion’s speed. It seemed his rear leg had low reaction time when it came to lunging. To compensate a lower en guard was ordered, and now his speed could match any. The tournament would come soon and Darion was confident that he would show his best. No doubt his performance would depend on wether the Swordsman accepted him or not.

[Swordsman]

Finally, the day of the tournament. Nækos’ pace quickened a little as he walked back into his cottage, a small spring in his step. It was fights that he lived for. Even now, his right hand twitched a little, begging for the feel of the sabre’s grip. Hope they have the sense to prohibit armor. What was the use of a tournament to first blood if a contestant might be wearing mail, or even plate?

The day would be warm. Not unbearably hot, which would have been a disaster, but warm all the same – probably a nice, normal sunny day in early fall. Was it fall, already? So it was. Winter would be not so much further off…and with it, the snows. Ah, the snows. Nækos smiled to himself at the thought, eagerly awaiting the cold and the long nights. But for now, he would have to be adjusted for the weather. Warmer temperatures were good for flexibility, but too much heat in the fight would fatigue him more quickly.

Entering his bedroom, he decided that removing the large bed and replacing it was a hanging hammock was a good idea – so much more room now to stretch out, fit a weapons rack, or whatever else he might want. The Talruum sabre hung on the right wall, above the wide wooden sword rack. He lifted it down and sheathed it, then set it on the hammock another thought occurred to him.

The armoire in the corner yielded a tight, long-sleeved black shirt. The material was a smooth, stretchy, supple material. The garment was, like much of his better equipment, or Russic origin. Skin-tight, there were no loose areas to swing or catch on anything; however, the give of the fabric guaranteed that it would never hinder his range of movement. Additionally, it would readily absorb blood and sweat, and dried quickly. Another sudden brainstorm prompted him to change to a much larger pair of pants that would better disguise his leg and footwork. He strapped the sabre on and spent a few minutes in the middle of the room stretching out. As usual, he was much more flexible just before an anticipated fight. Finally he just crouched in the middle of the floor, head down, eyes closed, fists clenched. He could feel the energy building inside, the thirst for combat.

He stood then, fully prepared. Whirled a light cloak from the wall around his shoulders, snatched a pair of blackleather gloves as an afterthought. And then he was off with a slam of the front door. The air was warm, and a bank of dark clouds was gathering in the south; they would bring lower temperatures and shade. The forest around him smelled heavily of balmy vegetation, and the water still in his thick hair from earlier that morning helped to keep him cool.

It was a perfect day for a fight – and even better for hundreds of them.

[Darion McNair]

His muscles were still a bit stiff, and it bothered him. He already stretched and did several sets of footwork (and bladework) drills but they still were bothering him. From the amount of people arriving to spectate one would think the entire town was closing down for the event. In any other activity that would have bothered him but not here. Darion wasn’t trying to please the masses, they were merely watching him do his work.

Some of the competitors were recognizable from the banquet. Recalling their conduct from last night, he compared it with what he observed now. In most cases he was right in his first assumptions of them. They were a mixture of the serious competitor or some poor slob just hoping to grab glory that was obviously far out of his reach.

It was time to get some firsthand experience from this crowd. Picking out a random person he decided to request a sparring bout. He walked up to one of them, a rather lanky man with a plainly adorned broadsword by his side.

“Excuse me sir, would you spar with me.” he asked.

The man looked at him. Glancing down at his weapon he smirked when he noticed Darion carried a rapier. His broadsword would slice that flimsy thing with no problem. “Sure.” he replied. “There’s some open space right over here.” He took out a sparring cork from his pocket and jammed it on the tip of his weapon.

Darion nodded. Unclasping his green cape he laid it on the ground and followed the other. His opponent graciously offered Darion a cork of his own and he fixed it to the tip of Halcyon’s blade.

“No cutting moves.” Darion told him. The other nodded reluctantly. Darion made a salute and settled into his en guard, found his center of gravity and was ready. His opponent soon was as well and the bout began.


Darion noticed from the start that his opponents en guard was way to far outside. A beat-feint to his chest brought him swinging recklessly inside, a tight disengage later the cork was on his chest. Darion retreated to his starting position and they went again. This time, his opponent was unwilling to just let him come.

A few quick advances and his opponent went for the nearest thing to his point: Darion’s arm. In what looked like the farthest lunge he could possibly make, he launched his attack. Darion’s made the first reaction that came, an outside parry. The opponent came again, the same attack. This time, Darion devised a counter attack. Making a purposely wide outside parry he brought the broadsword into a bind, angulated, and hit flank.

Their bout was being watched by several other competitors. Most of them no doubt waiting for Darion’s opponent to do something useful.

Again, the Bosconian native retreated to his starting point and they went again. The frustration was clearly evident in his opponent’s face by now. Not giving Darion any ground he made a quick crossover advance. He came at Darion with a beat and attempted riposte. Darion responded with a beat, half-lunge. The lunge was an inch short as expected and as predicted it sent his opponent into a frenzy. Beat after beat came in Darion’s direction, some of them with no hint of even a riposte. Darion retreated slowly, fueling his opponents adrenaline. The blocking parries were made: two, six, four, five, they flowed from Darion’s arm. His ‘flimsy’ Halcyon proving more than a match for his opponent’s weapon.

The frustrated fighter even tried some cutting attacks to Darion’s arm, which surprised Darion but he adjusted.

The timing was like clockwork, Darion didn’t even think his opponent noticed or cared. A break was soon found and Darion made a beat lunge. It was fast, but Darion made sure his arm was extended first on the lunge, if there was anything he learned during training it was that. The change in motion from retreat to lunge was so sudden that his opponent advanced right into the oncoming lunge. The impact of it punched the round stamp of the cork right into the side of his gut.

With that, he retreated a few foot lengths and saluted, signaling the end of the sparring match. They both uncorked their weapons and sheathed them. Darion shook hands, said ‘thanks you’. He offered some friendly advice to his opponent about how he should keep his en guard tighter but it was not well receive.

Perhaps this was one of the ‘slobs’? No matter, the bout was over with and he was warmed up. His legs weren’t so stiff anymore. He walked back to get his cape and overheard someone say the first bout matchups had been decided.

[Darion McNair]

Okay you stagnant wallflowers, lets get this thing moving :-P.


“Hear Ye Hear Ye!” bellowed the fat crier. “The bouts for the tournament have been decided. The tournament will commence.” continued the crier. “ The bouts will be as follows: Her Majesty Queen Zelda and Daniel Pignatello, followed by Darion McNair and the Lord Tellurine, the Lady Moon and Senyik Devlinn, Patrick Riley and Thomas Dartmouth, Sir Angelo and the Swordsman, Blade and Ranalia Migita......” he went on, naming at least 5 other bouts.

Darion recognized about seven of the names in the bouts that were called. All the others were complete strangers, but he would see how they all fenced soon enough. He had heard his bout, he was to face Lord Tellurine. “That should prove for an interesting fight.” he thought. The tournament commission had divided the competition area into two bout areas. With the amount of bouts they had to go through, it was impossible to limit it to one.

His bout was not for a few minutes so he decided to watch one that was about to begin. Patrick Riley and Thomas Dartmouth were facing each other in bout arena number one, both waiting for the start of the bout. Their respective weaponry were very similar to each other: brightly adorned sabers. Darion guessed they were perhaps high level dignitaries from other lands. But their true rank would be dictated by how they fought.

The bout began. In a flash the two charged at each other. Darion was surprised at the ferocity of the two. Their cuts were quick and their cuts were to the head and they left Darion wondering if their was some bad blood between them. Darion walked over to another competitor who was watching the bout.

“Why are they so savage?” he asked. “They look as if their trying to take each others heads off.” The other looked at him curiously and answered.

“Their countries are at war.” he said. “The conflict is far away to affect Arconia, but an alliance with a powerful country such as ours would prove a useful asset to either one. So here they are, competing for the crown.”

A second later a scream pierced the air and Darion looked up to see that Thomas Dartmouth had fallen, a substantial gash in his leg. Patrick Riley stood there, saber raised in a vicious attack stance. The bout officials rushed in to restrain him. A second later and his mortal enemy would have been no more.

Darion thought for a moment that maybe they both had intended to kill one another and neither cared about first blood.


The reality that his bout was next, descended upon Darion. He turned and left the ended bout, calming himself, making final preparations for the coming fight. He scanned the competitors to look for familiar faces, he spotted Ken-Dall (who must have just arrived). But he had no time to talk to her now, his bout was to soon. His eyes nearly skipped over the Swordsman. Darion smirked.

“He’s good.” he mused “I wonder how long he’s been here...unnoticed.” He walked back to his claimed space, his bout inching closer with every step.

[Swordsman]

Angelo's last name isn't Serana - Serana is a completely different character. You might refer to him as Sir Angelo.

[Darion McNair]

My appologies...has been changed.

[L_Marie]

Having nourished her steed, she mounted and headed toward town. The path she took was narrow and winding. Small scrub trees, now leafless stood low to the ground, but thick enough to make a good hiding spot should the need arise.

She trotted along in silence, her mind wandering. The sun had warmed and shone brighlty. Geese called in the distance no doubt amassing themselves fro the journey south. Somehting she should be doing herself she thought.

A small smile creased her lips as she entered the little hamlet. She noticed that the Bitter End looked not differnt than when she last saw it. Perhaps it needed a bit of paint, but still the same. On the corner the butcher shop still sat, fat sausages hanging in the open air. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted on the warm air from the little family bakery, still in its place. Ah, it almost feels like home, she thought as passed these places...rememberances of a time gone by.

She awoke from her happy memories to the shouts of hurruahs. Pulling her hood up to conceal her identity she sat up straight and as tall as her five foot six inch frame would allow. Then she rode into the crowd, searching for familiar faces.

[Zelda]

This takes place before the drawing of bouts
The Queen had forgone the normal formalities which a tourney like this would generally entail for someone of her rank. There would usually be a large fanfare, and triumphant entry of the ruling family, with all the attendant bowing and scraping by those trying to win favour with the crown. The ruling family would then take seats in a specially prepared pavilion decked with banners and watch the proceedings in comfort.

But this was no ordinary competition, for the Queen herself was competing, against the wishes of her cabinet, her attorney and most of the rest of the court. But it was the only way she could assure the lifestyle of the people she had come to love and respect. For this competition was to replace her husband as ruler, who was lost, presumed dead, while fighting his twin brother at the River Rock face so many moons ago. Personally the queen did not mind if she did not win, as long as she approved of who did. Hence the fact many of her loyal advisors such as the Swordsman and Sir Angelo had entered, with the intention of keeping the crown in Arconian hands.

As the Queen made her way down to the stadium she marvelled at the structure which had appeared almost overnight in a deserted and underutilized area of town near the back of the castle. The royal engineers had outdone themselves this time Zelda thought as she walked down from the castle. The streets echoed with the sounds of leather patens on wooden seats as the populous made their way onto the seating in the arena. As she walked through the streets many people stopped to wish her luck, and to say they would be cheering for her. It was not just idle talk, Arconians respected their royal family and loved them as they would one of their own. They were all hurting from Arcon’s loss and were praying that Zelda would win and thus allow them to continue life as they had become accustomed to it.

Using a side entrance the Queen entered the arena. Showing her competitors pass to the security official (a Mastarian native who had arrived with Nicholas and stayed) she went to find a spot to claim as her own. Spying a piece of ground Zelda laid out the cloak she had carried under her arm and sat down. Glower at her from a corner was Silas Von Schmect, surrounded as always by various greasy cronies who the Queen would not trust as far as she could smell them, let alone throw them. Various other shady characters lurked in the shadows, awaiting the commencement of the competition. Zelda watched with interest the tall man she had seen the night before talking to the Lady Moon. He did a very through warm up, and then sparred with a complete stranger. The Queen was impressed with his movements, they were small and neat. He seemed in control of his emotions, unlike some of the others she had witnessed sparring. She stared at his cape, trying desperately to remember some of the heraldry which her father had insisted she learn. “Bugger” the queen muttered as she stared intently at the cape, “I can’t think what it is”. Spying latenight rushing around the Queen signalled to him, beckoning him over with a crooked finger.

“Latenight, see that man over there?” the queen asked waving her hand in the direction of Darion.

“Which man where your majesty? There are at least 50 over in that general direction!” latenight replied shortly. He was stressed and regretting leaving his nice safe barge and the memory of Miss Spears for the hurly burly of a large stadium with many impatient people holding sharp swords.

“That one there, with the cape on….who is he?” the queen replied, narrowing the field down to about 10 men.

“What colour cape Zelda???” latenight asked exasperated. He had more important things to do then play guess the man with the Queen.

“The green one.”

“Oh him, I believe his name is Darion McNair. A bosconian native.” Latenight finally worked out who the queen was talking about.

“Ok thank you,” the Queen replied sweetly, before starting her stretching.

Latenight looked at the queen exasperated, shrugged and scurried off the supervise the bout draw and draft the papers to legally hand the kingdom over to the winner.

[Zelda]

This takes place AFTER the bout draw
The queen made her way to her first bout. Daniel Pignatello was a small weedy man from a neighbouring kingdom. He had visions of greatness but fight a queen to get there? Daniel wasn’t too sure about that. He knew how well Zelda was respected in Arconia, and other places for her skills with the sword.

But then again if you knew her mother you knew where she got it from. Alanna of Trebond and Olau (otherwise known as the Lioness) had taught her daughter well. She could fight as well as any man, and think as sneakily as any thief. That was her fathers Georges doing. Being a King of thieves meant that early on he had taught his daughter all the things an unethical fighter would do to win.

“Fencers Ready??” the umpire looked at both Zelda and Daniel. They both nodded and came to guard.

“Fence!”

Daniel wheeled in blade swinging. Zelda kept her distance waiting for him to make an attack. He lunged, Zelda parried in quarte, but did not riposte. Keeping distance Zelda circled the arena, advancing on her opponent. Her green eyes gleamed with a determination which made latenight and many of the other observers shiver. Not so much with fear but with awe at the passion which her eyes betrayed. Suddenly the Queen saw her opening and she feinted to the right. Her being a left hander this disconcerted Daniel who wildly parried. Dis engaging his blade the Queen feinted again, but this time to the left. Pignatello, caught off guard jumped backwards as Zelda took his blade and slide hers along it. With the point of her blade at his throat Pignatello dropped onto one knee.

“I yield your majesty.”

The Queen smiled and helped her opponent to his feet and shook his hand to the whistles and applause of the crowd. Still smiling Zelda made her way back to her cloak and sat down to survey some of the other matches in progress.

[Darion McNair]

“Next bout, Darion McNair and the Lord Tellurine.” cried the official of bout area number two. Darion was close by, watching and waiting for the bout to be called. In very measured step he made his way over to the official.

“Darion McNair.” was all he said. The official nodded and called again for Lord Tellurine. Darion glanced around, searching for the orange skinned nobleman that he had contact with before. “There he is.” Darion told him, spotting him approaching the bout area.

Lord Tellurine approached the official. He gave his name, all the while staring Darion directly in the eye. The look was one of stone, no expression just determination. “Good luck, Mister Darion.” The tone in which he contorted Darion’s name was all telling. It was obvious he knew full well Darion’s relationship with Ken-Dall. He didn’t approve of it and no doubt planned to show it in his fighting.

“Competitors to the bout area center.” ordered the official. The two fighters made their way to the circular bout area and retreated to starting distance. They drew their weapons and settled into an en guard position. Out of the corner of his eye a familiar form approached the bout area. Ken-Dall had come to watch.

“Temptation to lose concentration.” Darion thought. Under his own will, the preoccupation died when the official shouted ‘Competitors ready? Fight!’

Lord Tellurine made the first move, a small advance. Darion replied with an advance as well. Taking Tellurine’s blade he brought it into sixth position with Tellurine outside. It was then that his orange faced opponent surprised Darion with a very quick slash to his wrist. Only by shear luck did the blade slice Darion’s sleeve and miss his flesh.

A split second later Darion was two retreats away. He had made a major underestimation, Lord Tellurine was perhaps as skillful as he was crafty.

Darion adjusted his style to compensate for his mistake. Coming in again a solid change beat put Tellurine on the inside. Darion went flank, it was deflected by a parry to second. Tellurine riposted immediately. The parry four barely arrived in time to stop it.

Darion was battling from lunge position now refusing to give any ground. His riposte from fourth was too close for Tellurine’s taste. Darion’s orange skinned opponent made a blocking parry as he retreated followed by a point in line, warding off the swordsman from Bosconia for a few fleeting breaths.

A recover forward from Darion and they were ready to go at it again. Tellurine advanced, took Darion’s blade and attempted a bind only to be stopped by a stiff arm from Darion. Now Tellurine was stuck on the inside and too close for a normal attack. Bringing his blade up he went for an infighting remise but Darion followed he blade. Keeping Halcyon on the inside and matching parry with remise he made a swift crossover retreat, managing to escape unscathed. Darion hated infighting and always used his size and use of distance to his advantage.

Another onslaught from Tellurine. A beat lunge aimed at his shoulder. Darion deflected it with a parry to six and responded with a long, quick lunge to flank.

A shout from Tellurine brought Darion back into en guard preparing for a counterattack, but it never came. It was then that Darion realized his flank shot had hit. A rip in the clothing at his side was red with blood. The wound was not very big, but still, blood was blood.

“The winner is Darion McNair!” called the official. Darion breathed a sigh of relief and straightened up from his en guard. After the announcement, the official rushed over to help Lord Tellurine off the bout area. Darion offered to lend a hand but it wasn’t necessary.

He glanced over and saw Ken-Dall, the smirk on her face indicated she was impressed. He smiled in return, but the brief, mute celebration only lasted a second. For his next thoughts were focused solely on his next bout.

[Swordsman]

“…the Lady Moonitic and Senyik Devlinn…” He cringed to hear a lady’s name called by his. Men were so much easier to fight.

Senyik and Larya had reached the tournament grounds, but he’d been unable to find Nækos. Larya had taken a seat in the stands while Senyik went to warm up and stretch, and now it was time for the fights to start.

Quite a feeling, this is. Senyik thought as he walked out onto the sand. The place was completely different from the night before. The stands that had sat silent and empty now held a multitude of spectators. For right now they were relatively calm, just talking amongst themselves, betting and speculating. Once some of the bouts had been finished, favorites would emerge, and then the crowds would get just as savage as the competitors. But for now, it was a beautiful thing. The sand was warm under the late-summer sun, and just a bit of a warm breeze was moving. To top it all off, here he was to fight, with hundreds watching. Too bad it was a lady.

Senyik moved slowly and deliberately to the center of the circle, his opponent doing the same. She was beautiful, dressed in clothes that seemed to somehow be effective yet…fashionable? The thought rather stuck in Senyik’s mind. Her hair was pulled back in a tight
bun, and a loose white blouse was buttoned to just the right height. Intriguing, yet not inappropriate. The pants were not leather, but looked to be some sort of light material, somewhere between silk and wool. The boots, unfortunately, looked far too dressy to be very functional. She drew a smallsword from its sheath at her waist and affected a sloppy en garde.

He wore what he almost always wore: Baggy canvas pants, a light shirt (with sleeves this time, and dark green), and leather walking/working/fighting boots. He drew Shadowcatcher with a flourish, and settled to a loose defensive stance, tossing the sheath aside.

“Fencers ready?” the official inquired.

Senyik nodded, as did Moonitic.

“Fence!” He stepped back quickly.

It took Senyik a moment to place her style, which seemed so familiar. Then it dawned on him: It was every inexperienced rapierist, only using a smallsword. The moves were almost all made for a linear fight, and loose and careless at that. He really did feel bad for her, having to look so green out here in front of everybody. Should he make a bit of a show, let her look a little better, or just finish her quickly?

Moonitic noticed a pensive look on Senyik’s face and took the opportunity to duck in for a lunge. He parried, but barely. She might be inexperienced, but she was quick. Time to end it quickly.

So far, he’d been toying with her. No serious attacks, just blade-play, parries, and creative footwork. Now that she was getting serious, though, he pressed a simple attack. The parry came quickly, but large. A complex attack just lost her, and she ended up parrying by being in the right place at the right time (three actions behind, that is). She folded under a beat.

Senyik took a moment to concentrate on the area around: The crowds were still rumbling, but relatively quiet. He was backed up to near the edge of his circle, but had some room left to play in. But it wouldn’t really matter that much. He caught a riposte, swept it aside with a sort of two-handed parry in sixth, and landed a light cut to her shoulder. And that quickly, the fight was over – a small slice gone. Moonitic grimaced with the pain, but took it pretty well and walked purposefully – if quickly – out of the arena while moderate applause broke out for the victor.

“Your scabbard, sir.” The official had appeared out of nowhere at his elbow.

“Ah, thank you.” Senyik strapped it on and sheathed, walking thoughtfully away from the arena as the next bout was called. This had been an easy fight, with no really significant risk of his being eliminated. Sooner or later, though, it would get tougher. Darion seemed a respectable opponent. And even if he didn’t get anybody else hard, Senyik knew he’d eventually have to fight Nækos. Or whoever beat Nækos, and that was an even less attractive prospect.

[Swordsman]

“Sir Angelo and the Swordsman.” Nækos’ ears perked up a bit at hearing his title as he slipped through the crowds around the arena. It seemed a rather odd way to begin a tournament, with two of the top competitors facing each other. Better find an official before they called his bout proper.

The rotund little man in green and black was in the process of bustling along out of the officials’ box area when Nækos caught him. “Excuse me, you are the man who called the first twelve bouts?”

“That’s me, did ye not hear ‘em right?”

“I’m not sure. I seemed to hear ‘Sir Angelo and the Swordsman’, but thought it a strange way to start a tournament.”

“Let me see…the queen and Pignatello…McNair and Tellurine…Moonitic and Devlinn…Riley and Dartmouth…Tetla and Swordsman…Angelo and Nerka. Maybe you got things switched around in your head, maybe I called ‘em wrong. Don’t know.”

“In any case it makes more sense now, thank you. Tell me, what bouts have been fought so far?”

“Pignatello yielded when the queen had her point to his throat, McNair beat Tellurine, Devlinn beat the Lady, and Riley cleaved Dartmouth pretty well. Actually, you’re next.”

“Thank you again. Circle One?”

“Indeed.”

Nækos gave the crier a nod and headed for the arena. Now the blood was flowing. Time for combat.

It seemed his reputation preceded him; the crowd erupted as his name was called for the bout. He strode carefully out from the stands to the sand, each step measured and resolute. At the center of the smaller circle in which he was to fight, he crouched and pulled the cloak around him, hood up. Soft crunching of sand beneath boots alerted him to the arrival of the official and his opponent, and he stood.

The boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen, and was shaking like a leaf. “You don’t do much fighting, do you, my friend?”

“No, sir.” The voice quavered almost as badly. He couldn’t tell if the dark grin that showed from beneath the hood in front of him was friendly or malicious.

“I’ll apologize in advance, then. I anticipate winning the tournament. I need to make an impression on the masses in the process, which means that I’m going to beat you as quickly as absolutely possible. But I’ll try to be nice.”

“O…kay…”

“Fencers ready?” the official interjected. Nækos nodded. “Sir, you may draw your weapon now.”

“Thank you, but I’ll wait.”

“As you like. Mr. Tetla, are you ready?”

He drew a bastard sword with as much bravado as possible, took a deep breath. “Yes, sir.” Nækos was impressed to hear a calm, firm voice.

“Fence!”

Nækos advanced quickly on Tetla and knocked the blade aside with the back of his arm. Tetla was too startled and busy retreating to think of trying to make a cut when Nækos grabbed his dominant wrist with his left hand, and drove a light sharp hit into his face. Blood spattered from Tetla’s nose a moment later.

“The Swordsman wins!” The crowd went quiet for a moment – they had only just had a chance to start getting riled up; it couldn’t be over yet! But then comprehension slowly sank in, and they cheered. Tetla appeared shocked, and heartbroken.

“What is your name, my friend?” Nækos asked him.

“Relee. Relee Tetla.”

“Don’t worry about it, Relee. You might hear talk later about the guy who got beat with a bloody nose, but nobody really cares. They’re not talking down about you.”

“Right.”

“Now hold your head up and walk away with honor. One thing I hate is a sore loser.”

“Right.”

And Relee Tetla held his head high, and left the circle with honor. And the crowd even louder.

[Swordsman]

Larya was waiting for Senyik just within the stands after the first fight. “Sen!”

“Hey, Lar.”

“You beat up a girl!!”

“I had to!”

“No you didn’t!”

“If I wanted to win, I had to.”

“Who says you have to win?”

“I want to win! And she knew she’d be up against men when she signed up. It’s not my fault!”

“Whatever…” Senyik rolled his eyes. “Well, good job out there anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“Now who’s this guy you want me to meet?”

“He’s the black one down there in the little circle.” Senyik pointed down into the arena; they were now several rows up and back. As they watched for a moment, there was a short quick movement, and then the official called the bout. That was fast.

“That was fast,” Larya commented. Senyik just looked at her. “What?”

“I could be in real trouble.”

Larya gave the “You’re weird, Senyik” look, and turned her attention back to the arena. Senyik decided to test it, just to be sure. Evan’s an idiot, he thought. No reaction; he was safe after all. “Come on with me, Lar. Time to go meet him.”

[Darion McNair]

Silas von Schmect stood by the bout area and observed the queen as her bout with Pignatello ended. But rather than focusing on the skill of the queen, he was focusing on her opponent. A weakling who had nothing but a agitated fighting spirit and no skill to back it up. And what did he do?

“He yielded! That sloppy little peon!” he shouted. The crowd was in such delighted elation over the queen’s victory that no one noticed his outcry.

The Baron and Baroness had supplied him with decent training. It was enough to make him think he perhaps could be a match for the queen. He sat there brooding, the hatred he had for her swelling up inside of him. “The crown should be mine, it will be mine! I can be the best swordsman in all of Arconia!” he thought.

He had already won one bout, it was not a difficult task at all. From the way his opponent held his weapon one might have thought he was a miner. “He certainly swung his blade at me like a pickaxe. No matter, the slice across his stomach was enough to show who was the better one.”

As Queen Zelda made her way off of the bout area his eyes met hers. The two orbs in his head began glowing with an ambitious fire. Yes, he would be sure that it was Zelda who yielded to his attack, and the throne would finally carry his name.

[L_Marie]

She stood by the side of the arena, taking in all the bouts and making mental notes of each player. Shaking her head she thought to herself, "They certainly can take the easy ones, but what will they do with real competition?" She found these bouts quite boring, except for the queen's. She had always loved to watch her. She made it all seem so......so, well the word escaped her for the time being. Taking in a deep breath she returned her gaze to the most recent bout, crossing her arms in front of her and leaning against a conveniently placed post.

[Swordsman]

Senyik wanted to kick himself for pointing Nækos out to Larya in the crowd. She immediately made straight for him, determined to give him a talking-to.

Nækos turned around from talking to the queen and ran straight into a girl. His immediate impression was of very blue eyes, and very blond hair. His second impression was of a finger in his face.

“Are you the depressed guy Senyik’s been talking about? Because that’s stupid. Sen’s morbid enough, and it’s bad. Nobody should be really morbid for a long time. And if you’re even worse than him, I can’t imagine what you do to people. I mean, he can get rude when he’s in a bad mood, but he says you’re even more depressed and morbid than he ever gets. So if he gets rude, I don’t even want to think about what you would get like. And that’s a bad thing for you to do. And being in a bad mood is a bad thing anyway. It makes you not live as long. People should be happy, not sad or mad all the time. It’s not good for you. You probably have a lot of excuses for being the way you are, like ‘oh, my life is horrible’, or ‘oh, I had a bad childhood’, or ‘oh, my parents didn’t get me enough presents when I was a kid’, or something like that. But you can’t make excuses; you have to just get on with things! Not everything is bad in life, so you have to just look at the good parts and get over the bad parts. Excuses don’t work, so I don’t want to hear any from you! And don’t you look at me with that tone, either! You’ve been needing this talk for a long time, and it’s time somebody gave it to you. You have no excuses for the way you are, and there are no good reasons for you not to listen to what I’m saying, so just hear it and think about it!”

Senyik caught up and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Larya. Take a breath.”

She gasped.

Nækos’ eyes were wide. “You’re short.”

Larya pried Senyik’s hand away, grabbed Nækos by an ear, and pulled his face down to her level. “And you’ve got funny ears, but I wasn’t going to say anything! But since you were rude first, I thought I’d be rude back. You’re cute, though. So I forgive you.”

She kissed him on the nose, then let his ear go.

“Senyik, I owe you a shortsword.”

[Darion McNair]

“A pity” thought Darion as he observed the Swordsman’s rather instantaneous first bout. “The poor boy never had a chance.” The speed at which the attack was delivered was uncanny. Darion was beginning to understand why this man was respected so. Though the Bosconian native had a reputation in his homeland for being able to parry anything and having a lightning fast riposte, he knew even he would not be able to counter such an unexpected attack.

With the bout over he turned and looked for others in progress. In the other bout area one had just finished as well. Senyik and Ken-Dall’s bout was coming to a close, with Ken-Dall bearing a small wound in her shoulder. Darion frowned. “She’s done.” he murmured.

It seemed that even though he was a respectable fighter in most aspects, when it came to dealing with the opposite sex Darion had almost no clue. In trying to find the right woman, time and time again he had been made a fool. When Ken-Dall told him her life was in danger he offered his protection only to later feel like an idiot when it seemed it was just another one of her lies. More people seemed to want him dead and he was worrying about her.

He thought there could be something to the somewhat reclusive life the Swordsman seemed to live. Minimal contact with people can be a very good thing at times. You don’t have to worry about the affections of others, what their thinking, or what they might do to you. He hadn’t completely given up on Ken-Dall, or Princess Buffy, or whatever her name seemed to be, but he might just do that if some change didn’t happen very soon. He was tired of being toyed with.

He drew Halcyon and held it up in a sloppy salute “Maybe I should just stick to you, you never play mind games with me.” He replaced his weapon just as his name was called for his second bout. He made his way over to bout area number one.

[Darion McNair]

Silas had just been informed that one of his men who was also in the tournament was going up for his second bout. He would go against someone named....what was it again? Darion or something like that. The name didn’t sound local. But whoever he was he had faith that his associate would crush him, as always. He wandered over to bout area number one where the fight was to take place. It was then that he got a glimpse of Darion.

“Well he certainly looks like he knows what he’s doing.” he mused, judging from the green cape and dark tunic he wore.

He watched as the two saluted and came en guard. The official asked if they were ready. A confident “Ready sir!” came from Darion while Silas’s underling said nothing. The bout commence and they both did nothing at first. Silas watched as Darion advanced once and stopped. Then, to his surprise, he made one of the sloppiest parries Silas had ever seen. It swept wide. Silas watched as he did it again.

Darion’s opponent smiled wide, and knew the bout was his. With slovenly bladework like that this man would be a cinch to defeat. He watched as Darion came with the same sloppy parry and made ready to move in for the kill. The bad parry came and he went.

Suddenly he was stopped in his tracks by an outstretched blade, the parry hadn’t gone wide and the point had been artfully placed in the center of his chest. The man cringed in pain as Darion removed his weapon.

“How could he have missed that!” said Silas to himself. “That was his for sure! When I’m king, Darion McNair’s head will be the first to roll.”

Darion heard the official announce that he was victorious as he walked off the bout area. He knew what his opponent was thinking: “How could I have gotten beat by such a careless, incapable fighter?” And that was exactly the response that tactic was supposed to generate.

[Willow]

Willow watched the tournament from the balcony of her bedroom. It was as close as Nicholas and her mother would allow her to be to the action. She smiled with approval as Zelda won her match, frowned with concentration at some of the other matches. She watched intently as Moon prepared for her tournament. "Hmmmm, something isn't right here," Willow thought to herself. Watching Moon defeated, Willow gasped. It was true! Her suspicions were correct! What to do? Well, the truth was going to come out and it was going to come out soon. If someone else didn't notice this, Willow would wait and not announce her findings to the Queen. If she had to, she would, but first, she would have to make sure that little Daphne and Nicholas were safe. She would not risk her family for anyone. The false princess would trip herself up. The truth would be known.

[Blade]

Blade woke startled from his sleep at a nearby tree.

He had heard his name called. The hunched five foot seven, little creature stretched to his full large 6 foot 6 frame.

He sniffed the air. What had this sabreur heard. Blade and .....

Blade and Ricardo Montano...that was not it

Blade and Nat Miguel...that was not it either

"ah" Blade said aloud. "Blade and Ranalia Migita, circle three"

Blade scuttled over to the third circle. There were not too many spectators at this circle. There was one trying his or her best to conceal himself but Blade saw him.

NO, what Blade had seen was a Taalruum sabre.

Blade swore in Russic.
There were a few startled murmurs in the small crowd.
It was as if they recognised the language.

Blade entered the circle prepared to fight.

"Fencers Ready!" Blade heard called.

He looked up to observe his opponent. He was a diminutive thin little man with a moustache, something akin to Montoya in the Princess Bride but thinner and rattier. This little man had a nasty little smile on his face too.

"Fence"

Blade's mental process went through similar human statements such as I wonder if he knows his agrippa.......oh screw it

The thin little man was bearing down on Blade. Migita was padded up as much as possible for maximum protection.

Blade let out a guttural deep bellied laugh

To the crowd however, they all dove to the ground frightened of some strange weapon of attack.

Migita stopped in his tracks at the noise.

Blade was laughing at all the padding his sabre would easily cut through.

By the time the crowd recovered, Blade's sabre had pierced all Ranalia Migita's padding and had his point heavily pressed against his oppositions heart.

"I yield! I yield!! I yield!! I refuse to fight this monster!!" Migita screamed.

A hearty laugh came from the crowd. Blade was playing with the little man. He was switching his blade with pinpoint accuracy between Migita's heart and throat. Slowly slicing Migita's protective padding off.

Blade sniffed the air. He smelled rust on Migita's blade and spun quickly. He had seen something again.

From the guttural depths of Blade's bowels came the sound "Humans...Talruum sabre...do not mix"

Blade bellowed a war cry of the Talruum.

The crowd that had slowly gathered to laugh at Migita was driven off in droves and soon Blade found himself alone in the third circle.

Yet one man was openly approaching him.

who?


OOC: Anyone can take this from there, PM me

and sorry about the crappiness, with the slow movement on the boards here, its hard to stay in character when I feel I really haven't developed this character yet